


Knowledge

by leaveyoursanityatthedoor



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost (Swedish Band), Ghost B.C, Ghost Band
Genre: Biblical References, Biblical Reinterpretation, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fellatio, Light Dom/sub, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveyoursanityatthedoor/pseuds/leaveyoursanityatthedoor
Summary: One day in the Garden of Eden, along comes a serpent.





	Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> \- Here's something to tide people over until I manage to get the What You All Signed Up For chapter of my fic written. I said it would be soon, and I've written sections of it already, but I'm still sick and haven't the brain power to work on it properly just now. Apologies, my loves. Hang in there and you will be rewarded, I promise. 
> 
> \- This was originally going to be titled "Drilling Eve"; however, I ultimately decided against it because it's misleading. It's neither a parody of "Killing Eve", nor does the original sinner in this story get said drilling. 
> 
> \- As usual, an abundance of thanks to my wonderful friends, who encouraged me to turn what began as a simple premise into a oneshot and upload it here. And a huge thank you to you readers for stopping by.
> 
> \- Comments and constructive criticisms are very welcome. Please don't be shy.

Imagine you are Eve in the Garden of Eden. Adam is off on his pruning duties. You're just going about your day, being a fair and pure naked lady who doesn't crave any wands, when who should step out from behind the Tree of Knowledge but Papa II—although naturally, you have no idea who he is. And he comes (ahem) bearing gifts: an apple, gleaming a resplendent red, more vital and stunning than the color even of the fruit on the tree, and somehow you know down to the very marrow in your bones that it is an extension of him. With his sinister painted face, his adorned head and body, he is so unlike Adam, so entirely different than the only image of Man you're familiar with, that you're both frightened and intrigued. Yet, for all your sudden fear and your instinct screaming at you to run, you feel compelled to stay. His eyes—such a strange mismatch of green with impossibly pale blue—hold you, locked tight, as he steps closer, and you feel your intrigue turn to fascination. You couldn't flee now, even if you wanted to. 

A mere pace from you, he stops. Then, he asks you, in a foreign-accented voice that caresses and beckons to facets of you that you never knew existed, if the apple tempts you. Its color calls to you, and just by looking at it you can almost taste its crisp, juicy flesh. You notice your pulse is racing, and your cheeks feel flushed, as in particularly hot weather. There is an unfamiliar wetness gathering in your sex. You want...something...from this man, something you don't understand and couldn't even hope to put a name to, but that need is strong, and insistent. 

Your gaze shifts from the apple, to his, to the apple, and back to him again. Oh yes, you want this apple, more than you want the fruit on the tree that is forbidden to you; but more than this, you want _him_. Yet, you hold back, knowing you shouldn't, you mustn't. Adam is your husband, your one and only. You were created from his rib. You owe him your life. But never has he inspired these strange, urgent feelings, these needs without names. Conflicted, you take a step back, as if doing so will help you buy time. 

The stranger, however, is unphased. He watches you retreat, then matches your backstep with a forward one of his own. The material of his pitch dark garments glisten in the light, shiny as liquid. He coos, in that dulcet voice you would let coil around you and hold you in its embrace forever, that it's OK, there's nothing to fear. With a sudden and terrifying clarity, you know you cannot escape from him—not because you are physically unable, but because you absolutely do not want to. This unnatural, frighteningly-faced stranger is more attractive, more magnetic, than anything you have ever known. 

He takes your hand—his is encased in a material that somehow conveys an absolute authority—and gently presses it against his... body. No, not just any part of his body: his _cock_ , gloriously erect, covered by the satin of his strange clothing, but unconstrained. His eyes fixed on yours, like a hynotic flame from a land where angels fear to tread, he asks if you would rather taste this than the apple. 

Upon that touch, you're overcome with a tummult of feelings and needs stronger than anything you've ever experienced. Not just curiosity, but a devastating, raging desire and _lust_ —impure feelings, wrong feelings, sinful and wicked and damning. _Oh God, forgive me,_ you think, because now you know you want this stranger, want to see and taste and know him intimately. You can't stop yourself from buckling under the weight of those needs, crumpling to your knees before him. As he hikes up the layers of material, exposing himself to you, you're already salivating. Nothing in your entire life has ever felt like this. No previous temptation could ever compare. Neither Adam nor God may forgive you, but you can't help it. You are weak in the face of this ruinous man. 

Driven by some instinctual force you never could have imagined you possessed, you immediately begin to explore him, fingertips delicately traversing the gorgeously thick shaft and up to the tip. The chasm between him and Adam seems immense: where Adam's dick is small and flaccid, and with the head permanently covered by his foreskin, this man's is large, wondrously stiff, and with his foreskin retracted, pulled tight against the generous muscle. Where Adam's inspires nothing but neutrality, this man's has you enrapt. Having never felt any inclination to touch Adam's member, you have no knowledge of how it feels, but you can't imagine it being as warm as this, or feeling the way it gently pulses. That's his heartbeat, you marvel as you wrap your palms around that tempting length and thickness, drinking in the knowledge of him—you can feel his heartbeat in his dick. You brush your palms over the blunt tip, then back down his length, little sparks of excitement rushing through your hands at the enticing heat and texture of him. 

"Do you like that—being on your knees?" he coos. 

You look up at him, managing a timid nod. You do like it, more than you could have ever anticipated. There is something paradoxically divine about being debased by this man. But you want to please him, and as a novice, you feel unsure of your competence at doing so. You utter, weakly, as you fully envelope him in your hands, "Is this- is this OK?". 

A whisper of gloved fingers down your cheek, and a gossamer "Don't worry. Just enjoy it." has you not only reassured, but painfully charged with arousal. You can't help it: your desire shoots skyward, and you begin to felate him, lips and tongue and hands all over that meaty cock. Nuzzling your face against his length; butterfly kissing and delicately nibbling; sucking and slurping on his cock head, while one hand pumps his moistened shaft and the other strays, compelled by curiosity, to his balls, to cup and fondle. You can't get over how warm and full his member is, and the way the soft skin of his shaft moves over engorged muscle is such a foreign but fascinating sensation. The skin of his sack is petal soft, and also warm, and the tightness of it surprises you. His penile skin tastes clean and mostly neutral, but with the vaguest hint of something musky that speaks to you on the most primal of levels. You cannot imagine Adam tasting like this. 

You've never known anything so good as this, as him, and you never want it to end. So wrong, but so undeniably right. It doesn't matter that your jaw, unaccustomed to opening so wide, is beginning to hurt and tire, or that your face is uncomfortably flushed and your pussy so strangely wet, or that Adam could return at any moment. None of it matters. Just him. 

While you enjoy him, lost in his thrall and your need to bring this ruinous man pleasure, you hear him talk to you, telling you how beautiful sinning can be, if you let the sin in. Surrender to it. Give yourself over to it. Indulge. Glut yourself. Let it take you. As your hands indulge in his shaft and balls, you suck sensuously on his glans, flicking your tongue against the interesting little ridge on its underside and inciting a low moan from him. He tells you that your cunt is wet, so sopping wet, because it's natural lubrication for intercourse, for _fucking_. What you want, he says, is his dick in you, filling you and fulfilling you as the woman you truly are. That's what it was meant for. A delicious shiver skitters through you at the thought, and you are suddenly more aware of your sex than ever before. 

He promises he can make you feel as good as you are making him feel—and oh, you _are_ making him feel good, he says, you're doing wonderfully—with his fingers, lips, tongue and cock, he says, he can awaken parts of you to pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. He'll sheeth himself in your warm, tight wetness, and you'll know nothing but incredible pleasure. He'll cover his cock with your juices. He'll make you so wet it'll be dripping out of you. He knows you never wanted pleasure before, but that from now on you will crave it, and he can satisfy it for you, if you are a good girl for him. You want to be a good girl for him. 

There is a change in taste, you notice, something warm and slightly salty oozing from his urethra, and somehow you understand innately what is soon going to happen to him. 

"Such a good little pet," he says, as if in psychic acknowledgement of your understanding, "working so hard. You've gotten me close." 

You are torn, both needing more and more and ever more of him, but desperately craving his inevitable climax. You want to bring this man ecstasy. You beg him to climax in your mouth—you need to taste the product of your newfound actions, of what your desire and unholy lust has resulted in—but on this he denies you, saying he will only give that to you if you choose the dark. You know you're alreadly sold. 

Gently, he removes your right hand from his throbbing shaft, places the apple in it, and tells you to bring him to orgasm with your left, onto the apple. Polishing your cock-filled hand feverishly from base to tip, you delight in its insistent pulses, and the sudden, violent twitch as his pinnacle becomes imminent. His breath hitches. Oh, oh, ohhh, this is too good, just too good. Then as you work, you watch, awestruck, as cum spurts out of that delectable dick, shot after shot after delicious shot. You pump diligently, revelling in the rapid flexing and contracions within his shaft, the force of his heartbeat. As he crests, he moans what a good slut you are, how you were meant for this, made for it. You've never witnessed anything so wondrous and beautiful. 

His orgasm spent, he deftly lifts the jizz-glazed apple from your hand, then offers it to you anew. Do you want it now? Does it tempt you now? Oh yes, yes it does. 

You accept it, cum dripping onto your hands. Looking up at him, you take a bite, and become a sinner.

 

 

 

 


End file.
